


going to georgia

by guineaDogs



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Exhibitionism, Horror, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Murder, POV Second Person, Patrick Hockstetter is His Own Warning, Pennywise doesn't exist but horrible things still do, Present Tense, Violence, Voyeurism, but Patrick is a sick fucking character and I'm not shying away from that, mentions of animal abuse, necrophilia implication, the things that are tagged mention/implication aren't detailed at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-10-29 01:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20788652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineaDogs/pseuds/guineaDogs
Summary: You’re determined to get that spark back, somehow. You just need to get over this thing that’s made you feel so stagnant. It’s just a matter of waiting for the right moment, the right opportunities to present themselves.And then, you see Richie Tozier on the television.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> read the tags. read them again. and again. if you've read them, and you have any sort of understanding of Patrick Hockstetter, you know exactly what this is. if you don't, I recommend reading the wiki or just closing this right now. this is supposed to make you feel gross and uncomfortable. it made me feel gross and uncomfortable! it's horror! if you've read all of this and still get upset about it enough to yell at me for it, i'm just going to think you're an idiot.

_The most remarkable thing about coming home to you is the feeling of being in motion again._  
_ It’s the most extraordinary thing in the world._  
— The Mountain Goats  


The door creaks as you push it open. It needs a little WD-40 on the hinges, something you make a note of in case you ever bother to do anything about it, but you doubt you will. The price you pay for anyone knowing you’re leaving is worth knowing when someone is entering the house. _ Anyone _ just means a singular person, but that might not always be the case. It could, and would change, the moment an Authority realized you’ve broken the rules. 

You’ve pushed the envelope for a long time now, and you know it.

The house is as quiet as ever. It wasn’t always this way: when you were younger, you awoke to the sounds of sizzling bacon, returned home to the scent of fresh baked cookies or meatloaf. Food was waiting on you along with the woman who wouldn’t quite look at you in the eyes anymore, not since you turned fourteen and started towering over her.

A long time has passed since then. The layers of dust collecting on the curiosity cabinet in the living room illustrate just how long it’s been since the light snuffed out of your mother’s life. You aren’t at all concerned about housekeeping, and your father hasn’t been the same since. You couldn’t have created a better zombie if you tried. 

What concerns you is that she’s not here to do all of those small things that make life easier. The cooking and the laundry, the things that took up time that could’ve been spent trying to figure out what’s wrong with you. _ That’s _ what bothers you most. 

Maybe it’s because you weren’t the one who caused it. You watched her get sicker, and sicker. You watched the chemo poison her, her hair fall out. She looked like a twig that you could have just _ snapped _—

But when she died, it wasn’t because of you. You didn’t feel the flooding of your senses or the rush of adrenaline. There was no thrill like there was when you smothered your brother. You didn’t feel the elation you felt like when you were in eleventh grade for the second time and Betty Ripsom bent over near you while wearing that skirt. You’d not only seen her panties, but you’d slid your finger under them. She screamed and ran away, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

With your mother, it was different. You didn’t feel sad. You just didn’t feel anything. 

It’s been a struggle since then, but not for your lack of trying. There is no shortage of free pet listings on the Penobscot County Craigslist, after all.

You’re determined to get that spark back, somehow. You just need to get over _ this _ thing that’s made you feel so stagnant. It’s just a matter of waiting for the right moment, the right opportunities to present themselves. But until then, sustenance. 

The fridge is the same one that’s been here since childhood. The cooling was inconsistent and the freezer had a large buildup of ice, but as long as you can still stuff your TV dinners in there, it’s not really an issue. The one you remove for your evening meal is a tasteless and freezer burnt salisbury steak, but it’s food and you need food to survive and that’s all there is to it.

You wait by the microwave while it heats unevenly, and as soon as it finishes, you carry the black plastic tray to the living room. It burns your fingers; it’s a sensation that you’re aware of, but don’t particularly react to it because it doesn’t really _ feel _ like anything. Ultimately, you ignore it, setting the tray in your lap once you sit down. Before you even bother consuming your meal, you turn on the television. 

It’s easily the nicest thing in the house: it’s one of those big screens from 1999, square and heavy as hell. You have to sit _just_ _right_ in front of it to see it clearly. Too far to the right, too far to the left, and it’s like the color isn’t balanced right, or it’s all faded. You don’t bother to figure out why that is, you just know it’s the case and so you always sit in the middle of the couch.

Some evening talk show is airing when you turn on the television. You aren’t picky about what you watch; it doesn’t matter if it’s uninspiring or if it completely captures your attention. You’ll watch whatever show is in front of you. But in this case, it’s the latter. You recognize the comedian performing immediately.

He’s older in comparison to when you last saw him, with a pronounced five o’clock shadow, but you’d recognize him anywhere, and it’s made all the easier seeing as he still has the same thick glasses, the same shitty style in shirts. 

Over the course of the years, you’ve forgotten about Richie Tozier, but everything floods back to you at once, and it’s a stark reminder of how you used to be able to _ feel. _ You can’t reach for your phone fast enough, intending to scourge the internet for any information you can find.

_Richie Tozier. On tour._ _Los Angeles. Las Vegas. Denver. Houston. Biloxi. _And there it is. _Atlanta._

It’s as far east as he’s going, at least publicly where you can somewhat account for his whereabouts. 

Your salisbury steak is going cold.

But that settles it: you are going to Georgia.

* * *

“I’m not letting you borrow my car, Pat.” Your father sounds tired, but more than anything he sounds like an inconvenience. You watch him tug his glasses off with one hand to rub at his face. “Is something wrong with the truck?”

The truck. The 1985 piece of shit that can only reliably get you to work when it’s not too cold. There’s no way it’s getting you to Georgia, and you know that. “It’s not going to get me where I need to go.”

Your father sighs heavily. “You’re going to have to figure something else out. I need my car for work.” 

He’s not listening to you. He’s not going to take the time to understand _ why _ you need it, or why he should give it to you by virtue of you wanting it. It’s in that moment that he’s outlived his usefulness. 

When your hands wrap around his throat and squeeze, you feel it coming back. You feel _ alive _ as he tries to push you away, as he scratches at your arms, your neck, your face. A feeling you haven’t felt bubbles inside of you and you feel like you’ll burst if you don’t let it out.

So you do.

An eruption of laughter fills the room. It’s uncontrollable as your grip tightens, as the resistance ebbs into nothing. When you finally let go, letting him slump to the ground, you pocket his keys and wallet and calmly walk upstairs.

You aren’t much of a planner, but some things are certain: you’ll need money, and you’ll need to cover up the evidence. No one ever comes by, but eventually someone _ will. _ Just like how eventually, someone came by to see if anyone had seen Henry Bowers. 

You’d said no. You’d said that last you spoke, he was going to go up to Bangor for some reason or another. You’d shrugged and that had been the end of it. In a way, it had been _ somewhat _ true. Henry _ had _ intended to go to Bangor. But you didn’t want him to leave. You couldn’t _ let _ him leave. He never understood that.

_ He does now _ , you think, as you open your bedroom door. He’s there, laying on your bed, as he has for years now. You wonder, if you leave, if there’s any coming back. There probably isn’t, and even you know that, but there’s something something fitting about _ you _ being the one to leave him behind. 

That resolves it. You’ll take the wad of bills that you know your father stores in his sock drawer. You’ll pack your clothes. You’ll say your goodbyes. You’ll stuff your father’s corpse in the hallway closet and give Henry one last kiss before you drive off into the night. 

For a moment, you almost consider burning the house down, and as gratifying as that would be… that would get them coming after you much sooner, and you can’t very well have that. You stick to your plan. You load up the back of the car, and you say goodbye to Derry, and to Maine, forever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i figure shorter chapters mean more frequent updates from me so... here it goes. as with the first chapter, check tags and read at your own risk.   
you can find me on twitter @guineadogs or tumblr @thaumatroping if you're so inclined

One week. 

That’s how long you have before Richie Tozier arrives to Atlanta. There’s two days of performances at the Laughing Skull Lounge, which means you have a two-day window to achieve the plan that’s still formulating in your mind. There’s time, and that’s what matters. 

There’s not much on your mind as you drive. It’s dark, wilderness, and it’s only your headlights that illuminate your path. The radio is off and the windows are down. You hear the wind, the roaring of the engine as you speed down the riding winding road. 

You keep alert, keeping your eyes on the road, on the shoulders, lest you risk hitting a deer or moose or anything else that would destroy the car and incapacitate you or worse. After all, you don’t want anything to unnecessarily delay you. If something happens to this car, you aren’t sure where you’ll find one as fuel efficient, or one you’d be able to use so easily without automatically getting flagged for auto theft.

Fortunately, this stretch of highway is uneventful.

You’re thirty minutes into New Hampshire when you stop for gas. Twenty bucks to fill ‘er up, another ten for a bottle of water and some beef jerky for the road. As you carry the items to the checkout counter, your gaze falls upon the collection of Stackers on display behind thick, translucent plastic. 

You consider it, not for the ‘fat burning’ tagline, but for the boost of energy it’s supposed to provide. But do you really need it? Do your really  _ need _ anything? Alertness, the ability to stay awake… that comes easily. You don’t need sleep, or much of it, anyway.

The indecision you feel regarding the Stackers wanes quickly and you opt for just your original purchase. Paid for, you head out of the store to the car, ignoring the way the crisp air pricks at your skin. You toss the items into the front passenger seat, within an arm’s length when you eventually need it.

Turning over the ignition, you let the car idle at the pump. It occurs to you that the phone has to go. You know that’s how THEY track you. Even if you turn your location off, even if you remove the battery. THEY will know. 

THEY, of course, are the enforcers of the rules, the authorities, and it would be a shame if their awareness of your movements thwarted your plans before you even get to have your fun. 

A phone is no loss, anyway. The only people who would have texted you or called you were now dead, no longer active pawns on your chessboard. If you can even compare your game to that… It’s more like a game of Risk. Except you aren’t acquiring land. You’re acquiring lives, and a body count.

So the phone has to go. You power it down, pop off the case, and open the back of it. After removing the SIM card from its slot, you crush it between your teeth.

The car door whines as you push it back open. You toss the phone and pieces of SIM card into the overflowing, rancid-smelling trash can. It’s the sort of stench that pulled tears from your mother’s eyes, that made your father retch, but it doesn’t affect you. You don’t really feel one way or another about it. It’s just the scent of rot and decay, and it’s one you’re familiar with. 

The rest of the night drive is as uneventful as it started. You aren’t entirely sure where you are—much of New England looks the same to you in the dead of night, especially when you’re taking the unpopulated and isolated backroads. What you do know is that you are travelling south, and that’s all you need to know for the time being. 

The sun crests over the horizon, filtering through the trees and vegetation as you pull to a vacant rest area. It’s somewhere in upper New York. You saw a sign welcoming you to the Empire State not half an hour back. You pull into a heavily shaded parking spot in hopes that as the sun rises, the sun isn’t directly in your face. 

You’re not  _ tired _ . Beneath the surface, you are still brimming with energy. It’s like a current in your veins, but at least for now, you would rather drive under the veil of nightfall. It doesn’t hurt to rest. It helps pass the time. Adjacent to you, your father’s blazer half rests on the back seat, half on the floorboard. The car  _ was _ your father’s after all, so it’s not a surprise that it’s there, but it’s fortuitous that it is regardless. 

After all, you didn’t think far enough ahead to bring a change of clothes, much less a towel or blanket to block out the window. Snatching the garment from the backseat, you roll down the window just a little so you can wedge the blazer between the top edge of the window and the frame of the door. The window rolls up, the seat tilts back, you close your eyes.

With your eyes closed, you can feel the day pass—the interior of the car warms, the air becomes thicker, but not so much that you can’t breathe. You can feel the lights changes through your eyelids, the sort of redness that you can sort of see when the sunlight hits just right. At some point, you stop noticing it and you get a semblance of rest.

When alertness returns to you, the sun is low in the sky. Turning the ignition over just enough to turn on the electronics, you see that it is 4:34. You’ve successfully wasted most of the daylight hours, and for several reasons, your body isn’t quite happy with you for it. Pocketing the car keys, you get out of the car.

You stand on your tiptoes as you raise your arms overhead. Your muscles stretch, releasing the tension that’s built up over sitting for so long. Your elbows pop. Your stiff knees ache as you walk up the hill from the parking lot to the rest area’s facilities. It’s one building, brick and mortar with floor to ceiling Plexiglas windows. One of the doors is propped open, beckoning you into a large room lined with vending machines and water fountains. There’s a rack of probably outdated brochures advertising the attractions in the area, and a faded map of New York above it mounted on the wall. The doors to the bathrooms are hidden behind half walls, with clearly marked signs in your view.

There’s nothing that really stands out to you about with this rest area. It’s just a rest area, nothing more. A rather empty one at that. 

You walk into the men’s restroom. You feel the rush of air from the door behind you. And the eyes of a man hunched over one of the urinals with one arm wedged against the wall. The way his hand is moving, the way the man grunts— _ sharp and breathless _ —you know he’s not taking a piss. 

You watch him. He watches you. You stand where you are by the door. This is a show just for you, and you intend to enjoy it, so you take it all in: his disheveled dark hair, the traces of a five o’clock shadow along his cheeks and jaw. The t-shirt is faded, his jeans unzipped and hugging his hips. 

What you’re most keen on watching, though, is his hand. You wonder if it’s calloused as it rubs fervently around his cock. From here, it seems like a rather average cock, but a cock is a cock and while it’s here for your viewing pleasure, you’re going to enjoy it. You watch the man as he finishes and tucks himself back into his pants. 

You smirk as he passes you to wash his hands, and you go about what you went in there to do in the first place.

When you leave the bathroom to head back to the car, you see the same man at the vending machines, jabbing at the buttons, shaking the machine. You spare him a parting glance, but otherwise keep walking. You have places to go, after all. 

It’s not long after you settle back in your car that you see him running toward you. It’s intriguing, so you roll the window down just as he’s reaching the driver’s side door. He’s a little breathless, but he’s harmless. Then again, you don’t quantify things in terms like  _ safe _ and  _ dangerous. _

“Hey—” He says. “You don’t happen to be heading down south, do you?” 

You decide to be charming. Or you try to be—it’s like a switch, you can turn it on. Like a light illuminates a room, you can turn on the semblance of friendliness. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes your prey realizes your smile bears too many teeth and looks predatory. This man doesn’t seem to notice. “Sure am. What’s it to ya?”

“I’m trying to get down to the city. Can I bum a ride off you?”

You make a grimacing sound, glancing over to the front passenger’s seat, as if this might potentially inconvenience you rather than an attempt to see just how desperate this man is. “I don’t know…”

“C’mon, man, please. I don’t have a lot of money, but I can help pay for gas—or I can pay for a room.” He’s definitely desperate. Almost frantic. “I saw you watching me. We can PNP if you’re down.” 

You tap your fingers on the steering wheel. “Alright, get in.” You unlock the car and move the items in the passenger seat to the back. You watch him closely as he takes his seat, setting his backpack on the floorboard between his legs and buckles his seat belt. “What’s your name?”

“Adrian.” 


End file.
